To memory, in sweetly pensive1 grief.”
Virgil’s Tomb.
“Mine be the breezy hill, that skirts the down,
Where a green grassy2 turf is all I crave3,
With here and there a violet bestrown,
And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.”
The Minstrel.
Repose4 had so much restored Clara, that when Adeline, anxious to know how she did, went early in the morning to her chamber5, she found her already risen, and ready to attend the family at breakfast. Monsieur Verneuil appeared also, but his looks betrayed a want of rest, and indeed he had suffered during the night a degree of anguish6 from his arm, which it was an effort of some resolution to endure in silence. It was now swelled8 and somewhat inflamed9, and this might in some degree be attributed to the effect of Madame La Luc’s balsam, whose restorative qualities had for once failed. The whole family sympathised with his sufferings, and Madame, at the request of M. Verneuil, abandoned her balsam, and substituted an emollient10 fomentation.
From an application of this he, in a short time, found an abatement12 of the pain, and returned to the breakfast table with greater composure. The happiness which La Luc felt at seeing his daughter in safety was very apparent, but the warmth of his gratitude14 towards her preserver he found it difficult to express. Clara spoke15 the genuine emotions of her heart with artless, but modest, energy, and testified sincere concern for the sufferings which she had occasioned M. Verneuil.
The pleasure received from the company of his guest, and the consideration of the essential services he had rendered him, co-operated with the natural hospitality of La Luc, and he pressed M. Verneuil to remain some time at the chateau16. — “I can never repay the services you have done me,” said La Luc; yet I seek to increase my obligations to you by requesting you will prolong your visit, and thus allow me an opportunity of cultivating your acquaintance.”
M. Verneuil, who at the time he met La Luc was travelling from Geneva to a distant part of Savoy, merely for the purpose of viewing the country, being now delighted with his host and with every thing around him, willingly accepted the invitation. In this circumstance prudence18 concurred19 with inclination20, for to have pursued his journey on horseback, in his present situation, would have been dangerous, if not impracticable.
The morning was spent in conversation, in which M. Verneuil displayed a mind enriched with taste, enlightened by science, and enlarged by observation. The situation of the chateau and the features of the surrounding scenery charmed him, and in the evening he found himself able to walk with La Luc and explore the beauties of this romantic region. As they passed through the village, the salutations of the peasants, in whom love and respect were equally blended, and their eager inquiries21 after Clara, bore testimony22 to the character of La Luc, while his countenance23 expressed a serene24 satisfaction, arising from the consciousness of deserving and possessing their love. — “I live surrounded by my children,” said he, turning to M. Verneuil, who had noticed their eagerness, “for such I consider my parishioners. In discharging the duties of my office, I am repaid not only by my own conscience, but by their gratitude. There is a luxury in observing their simple and honest love, which I would not exchange for any thing the world calls blessings25.”
“Yet the world, Sir, would call the pleasures of which you speak romantic,” said M. Verneuil; “for to be sensible of this pure and exquisite26 delight requires a heart untainted with the vicious pleasures of society — pleasures that deaden its finest feelings and poison the source of its truest enjoyments27.” — They pursued their way along the borders of the lake, sometimes under the shade of hanging woods, and sometimes over hillocks of turf, where the scene opened in all its wild magnificence. M. Verneuil often stopped in raptures29 to observe and point out the singular beauties it exhibited, while La Luc, pleased with the delight his friend expressed, surveyed with more than usual satisfaction the objects which had so often charmed him before. But there was a tender melancholy30 in the tone of his voice and his countenance, which arose from the recollection of having often traced those scenes, and partook of the pleasure they inspired, with her who had long since bade them an eternal farewell.
They presently quitted the lake, and, winding31 up a steep ascent32 between the woods, came, after an hour’s walk, to a green summit, which appeared, among the savage33 rocks that environed it, like the blossom on the thorn. It was a spot formed for solitary34 delight, inspiring that soothing35 tenderness so dear to the feeling mind, and which calls back to memory the images of passed regret, softened36 by distance and endeared by frequent recollection. Wild shrubs38 grew from the crevices39 of the rocks beneath, and the high trees of pine and cedar40 that waved above, afforded a melancholy and romantic shade. The silence of the scene was interrupted only by the breeze as it rolled over the woods, and by the solitary notes of the birds that inhabited the cliffs.
From this point the eye commanded an entire view of those majestic41 and sublime42 alps whose aspect fills the soul with emotions of indescribable awe43, and seems to lift it to a nobler nature. The village, and the chateau of La Luc appeared in the bosom44 of the mountains, a peaceful retreat from the storms that gathered on their tops. All the faculties45 of M. Verneuil were absorbed in admiration46, and he was for some time quite silent; at length, bursting into a rhapsody, he turned, and would have addressed La Luc, when he perceived him at a distance leaning against a rustic47 urn13, over which dropped, in beautiful luxuriance, the weeping willow48.
As he approached, La Luc quitted his position, and advanced to meet him, while M. Verneuil inquired upon what occasion the urn had been crected. La Luc, unable to answer, pointed49 to it, and walked silently away, and M. Verneuil, approaching the urn, read the following inscription50:
TO THE MEMORY OF CLARA LA LUC, THIS URN IS ERECTED51 ON THE SPOT WHICH SHE LOVED, IN TESTIMONY OF THE AFFECTION OF A HUSBAND.
M. Verneuil now comprehended the whole, and, feeling for his friend, was hurt that he had noticed this monument of his grief. He rejoined La Luc, who was standing52 on the point of the eminence53 contemplating54 the landscape below with an air more placid55, and touched with the sweetness of piety56 and resignation. He perceived that M. Verneuil was somewhat disconcerted, and he sought to remove his uneasiness. “You will consider it,” said he, “as a mark of my esteem57 that I have brought you to this spot. It is never prophaned by the presence of the unfeeling. “They would deride58 the faithfulness of an attachment59 which has so long survived its objects, and which, in their own breasts, would quickly have been lost amidst the dissipation of general society. I have cherished in my heart the remembrance of a woman whose virtues61 claimed all my love: I have cherished it as a treasure to which I could withdraw from temporary cares and vexations, in the certainty of finding a soothing, though melancholy, comfort.”
La Luc paused. M. Verneuil expressed the sympathy he felt, but he knew the sacredness of sorrow, and soon relapsed into silence. “One of the brightest hopes of a future state,” resumed La Luc, “is, that we shall meet again those whom we have loved upon earth. And perhaps our happiness may be permitted to consist very much in the society of our friends, purified from the frailties63 of mortality, with the finer affections more sweetly attuned64, and with the faculties of mind infinitely65 more elevated and enlarged. We shall then be enabled to comprehend subjects which are too vast for human conception; to comprehend, perhaps, the sublimity66 of that Deity67 who first called us into being. These views of futurity, my friend, elevate us above the evils of this world, and seem to communicate to us a portion of the nature we contemplate68.”
“Call them not the illusions of a visionary brain,” proceeded La Luc: I trust in their reality. Of this I am certain, that whether they are illusions or not, a faith in them ought to be cherished for the comfort it brings to the heart, and reverenced69 for the dignity it imparts to the mind. Such feelings make a happy and an important part of our belief in a future existence: they give energy to virtue62, and stability to principle.”
“This,” said M. Verneuil, “is what I have often felt, and what every ingenuous70 mind must acknowledge.”
La Luc and M. Verneuil continued in conversation till the sun had left the scene. The mountains, darkened by twilight72, assumed a sublimer73 aspect, while the tops of some of the highest alps were yet illumined by the sun’s rays, and formed a striking contrast to the shadowy obscurity of the world below. As they descended74 through the woods, and traversed the margin75 of the lake, the stillness and solemnity of the hour diffused77 a pensive sweetness over their minds, and sunk them into silence.
They found supper spread, as was usual, in the hall, of which the windows opened upon a garden, where the flowers might be said to yield their fragrance78 in gratitude to the refreshing79 dews. The windows were embowered with eglantine and other sweet shurubs, which hung in wild luxuriance around, and formed a beautiful and simple decoration. Clara and Adeline loved to pass the evenings in this hall, where they had acquired the first rudiments80 of astronomy, and from which they had a wide view of the heavens. La Luc pointed out to them the planets and the fixed81 stars, explained their laws, and from thence taking occasion to mingle82 moral with scientific instruction, would often ascend83 towards that great first cause, whose nature soars beyond the grasp of human comprehension.
“No study,” he would sometimes say, “so much enlarges the mind, or impresses it with so sublime an idea of the Diety, as that of astronomy. When the imagination launches into the regions of space, and contemplates84 the innumerable worlds which are scattered85 through it, we are lost in astonishment86 and awe. This globe appears as a mass of atoms in the immensity of the universe, and man a mere17 insect. Yet how wonderful! that man, whose frame is so diminutive87 in the scale of being, should have powers which spurn88 the narrow boundaries of time and place, soar beyond the sphere of his existence, penetrate89 the secret laws of nature, and calculate their progressive effects.”
“O! how expressively90 does this prove the spirituality of our Being! Let the materialist91 consider it, and blush that he has ever doubted.”
In this hall the whole family now met at supper, and during the remainder of the evening the conversation turned upon general subjects, in which Clara joined in modest and judicious92 remark. La Luc had taught her to familiarize her mind to reasoning, and had accustomed her to deliver her sentiments freely: she spoke them with a simplicity93 extremely engaging, and which convinced her hearers that the love of knowledge, not the vanity of talking, induced her to converse94. M. Verneuil evidently endeavoured to draw forth95 her sentiments, and Clara, interested by the subjects he introduced, a stranger to affectation, and pleased with the opinions he expressed, answered them with frankness and animation96. They retired97 mutually pleased with each other.
M. Verneuil was about six and thirty; his figure manly99, his countenance frank and engaging. A quick penetrating100 eye, whose fire was softened by benevolence101, disclosed the chief traits of his character; he was quick to discern, but generous to excuse, the follies102 of mankind; and while no one more sensibly felt an injury, none more readily accepted the concession103 of an enemy.
He was by birth a Frenchman. A fortune lately devolved to him, had enabled him to execute the plan, which his active and inquisitive104 mind had suggested, of viewing the most remarkable105 parts of the continent. He was peculiarly susceptible106 of the beautiful and sublime in nature. To such a taste Switzerland and the adjacent country was, of all others, the most interesting; and he found the scenery it exhibited infinitely surpassing all that his glowing imagination had painted; he saw with the eye of a painter, and felt with the rapture28 of a poet.
In the habitation of La Luc he met with the hospitality, the frankness, and the simplicity, so characteristic of the country: in his venerable host he saw the strength of philosophy united with the finest tenderness of humanity — a philosophy which taught him to correct his feelings, not to annihilate107 them; in Clara, the bloom of beauty, with the most perfect simplicity of heart; and in Adeline all the charms of elegance108 and grace, with a genius deserving of the highest culture. In this family picture the goodness of Madame La Luc was not unperceived or forgotten. The chearfulness and harmony that reigned109 within the chateau was delightful110; but the philanthropy which, flowing from the heart of the pastor111, was diffused though the whole village, and united the inhabitants in the sweet and firm bonds of social compact, was divine. The beauty of its situation conspired112 with these circumstances to make Leloncourt seem almost a Paradise. M. Verneuil sighed that he must so soon quite it. “I ought to seek no farther,” said he, “for here wisdom and happiness dwell together.
The admiration was reciprocal; La Luc and his family found themselves much interested in M. Verneuil, and looked forward to the time of his departure with regret. So warmly they pressed him to prolong his visit, and so powerfully his own inclinations113 seconded theirs, that he accepted the invitation. La Luc omitted no circumstance which might contribute to the amusement of his guest, who having in a few days recovered the use of his arm, they made several excursions among the mountains. Adeline and Clara, whom the care of Madame had restored to her usual health, were generally of the party.
After spending a week at the chateau, M. Verneuil bade adieu to La Luc and his family; they parted with mutual98 regret, and the former promised that when he returned to Geneva, he would take Leloncourt in his way. As he said this, Adeline, who had for some time observed, with much alarm, La Luc’s declining health, looked mournfully on his languid countenance, and uttered a secret prayer that he might live to receive the visit of M. Verneuil.
Madame was the only person who did not lament114 his departure, she saw that the efforts of her brother to entertain his guest were more than his present state of health would admit of, and she rejoiced in the quiet that would now return to him.
But this quiet brought La Luc no respite115 from illness; the fatigue116 he had suffered in his late excursions seemed to have encreased his disorder117, which in a short time assumed the aspect of a consumption. Yielding to the solicitations of his family, he went to Geneva for advice, and was there recommended to try the air of Nice.
The journey thither119, however, was of considerable length, and believing his life to be very precarious120, he hesitated whether to go. He was also unwilling121 to leave the duty of his parish unperformed for so long a period as his health might require; but this was an objection which would not have withheld122 him from Nice, had his faith in the climate been equal to that of his physicians.
His parishioners felt the life of their pastor to be of the utmost consequence to them. It was a general cause, and they testified at once his worth, and their sense of it, by going in a body to solicit118 him to leave them. He was much affected123 by this instance of their attachment. Such a proof of regard, joined with the entreaties125 of his own family, and a consideration that for their sakes it was a duty to endeavour to prolong his life, was too powerful to be withstood, and be determined126 to set out for Italy.
It was settled that Clara and Adeline, whose health La Luc thought required change of air and scene, should accompany him, attended by the faithful Peter.
On the morning of his departure, a large body of his parishioners assembled round the door to bid him farewell. It was an affecting scene; they might meet no more. At length, wiping the tears from his eyes, La Luc said, “Let us trust in God, my friends; he has power to heal all disorders127 both of body and mind. We shall meet again, if not in this world, I hope in a better. Let our conduct be such as to ensure that better.”
The sobs128 of his people prevented any reply. There was scarcely a dry eye in the village; for there was scarcely an inhabitant of it that was not now assembled in the presence of La Luc. He shook hands with them all, “Farewell, my friends, said he,” “we shall meet again.” “God grant we may,” said they, with one voice of fervent129 petition.
Having mounted his horse, and Clara and Adeline being ready, they took a last leave of Madame La Luc, and quitted the chateau. The people, unwilling to leave La Luc, the greater part of them accompanied him to some distance from the village. As he moved slowly on he cast a last lingering look at his little home, where he had spent so many peaceful years, and which he now gazed on, perhaps for the last time, and tears rose to his eyes; but he checked them. Every scene of the adjacent country called up, as he passed, some tender remembrance. He looked towards the spot consecrated130 to the memory of his deceased wife; the dewy vapours of the morning veiled it. La Luc felt the disappointment more deeply, perhaps, than reason could justify131; but those who know from experience how much the imagination loves to dwell on any object, however remotely connected with that of our tenderness, will feel with him. This was an object round which the affections of La Luc had settled themselves; it was a memorial to the eye, and the view of it awakened132 more forcibly in the memory every tender idea that could associate with the primary subject of his regard. In such cases fancy gives to the illusions of strong affection, the stamp of reality, and they are cherished by the heart with romantic fondness.
His people accompanied him for near a mile from the village, and could scarcely then be prevailed on to leave him; at length he once more bade them farewell, and went on his way, followed by their prayers and blessings.
La Luc and his little party travelled slowly on, sunk in pensive silence — a silence too pleasingly sad to be soon relinquished133, and which they indulged without fear of interruption. The solitary grandeur134 of the scenes through which they passed, and the soothing murmur135 of the pines that waved above, aided this soft luxury of meditation136.
They proceeded by easy stages; and after travelling for some days among the romantic mountains and green vallies of Piedmont, they entered the rich country of Nice. The gay and luxuriant views which now opened upon the travellers as they wound among the hills, appeared like scenes of fairy enchantment137, or those produced by the lonely visions of the Poets. While the spiral summits of the mountains exhibited the snowy severity of winter, the pine, the cypress139, the olive, and the myrtle shaded their sides with the green tints141 of spring, and groves143 of orange, lemon, and citron, spread over their feet the full glow of autumn. As they advanced the scenery became still more diversified144; and at length, between the receding145 heights, Adeline caught a glimpse of the distant waters of the Mediterranean146, fading into the blue and cloudless horizon. She had never till now seen the ocean; and this transient view of it roused her imagination, and made her watch impatiently for a nearer prospect147.
It was towards the close of day when the travellers, winding round an abrupt148 projection149 of that range of Alps which crowns the amphitheatre that environs Nice, looked down upon the green hills that stretch to the shores, on the city, and its antient castle, and on the wide waters of the Mediterranean; with the mountains of Corsica in the farthest distance. Such a sweep of sea and land, so varied150 with the gay, the magnificient, and the awful, would have fixed any eye in admiration:— for Adeline and Clara novelty and enthusiasm added their charms to the prospect. The soft and salubrious air seemed to welcome La Luc to this smiling region, and the serene atmosphere to promise invariable summer. They at length descended upon the little plain where stands the city of Nice, and which was the most extensive piece of level ground they had passed since they entered the county. Here, in the bosom of the mountains, sheltered from the north and the east, where the western gales151 alone seemed to breathe, all the blooms of spring and the riches of autumn were united. Trees of myrtle bordered the road, which wound among groves of orange, lemon, and bergamot, whose delicious fragrance came to the sense mingled152 with the breath of roses and carnations153 that blossomed in their shade. The gently swelling154 hills that rose from the plain were covered with vines, and crowned with cypresses155, olives and date trees; beyond, there appeared the sweep of lofty mountains whence the travellers had descended, and whence rose the little river Paglion, swoln by the snows that melt on their summits, and which, after meandering156 through the plain, washes the walls of Nice, where it falls into the Mediterranean. In this blooming region Adeline observed that the countenances157 of the peasants, meagre and discontented, formed a melancholy contrast to the face of the country, and she lamented158 again the effects of an arbitrary government, where the bounties159 of nature, which were designed for all, are monopolized160 by a few, and the many are suffered to starve tantalized161 by surrounding plenty.
The city lost much of its enchantment on a nearer approach: its narrow streets and shabby houses but ill answered the expectation which a distant view of its ramparts and its harbour, gay with vessels162, seemed to authorise. The appearance of the inn at which La Luc now alighted did not contribute to soften37 his disappointment; but if he was surprised to find such indifferent accommodation at the inn of a town celebrated164 as the resort of valetudinarians, he was still more so when he learned the difficulty of procuring165 furnished lodgings166.
After much search he procured167 apartments in a small but pleasant house, situated168 a little way out of the town: it had a garden, and a terrace which overlooked the sea, and was distinguished169 by an air of neatness very unusual in the houses of Nice. He agreed to board with the family, whose table likewise accommodated a gentleman and lady, their lodgers170, and thus he became a temporary inhabitant of this charming climate.
On the following morning Adeline rose at an early hour, eager to indulge the new and sublime emotion with which a view of the ocean inspired her, and walked with Clara toward the hills that afforded a more extensive prospect. They pursued their way for some time between high embowering banks, till they arrived at an eminence, whence
“Heaven, earth, ocean, smil’d!”
They sat down on a point of rock, overshadowed by lofty palm-trees, to contemplate at leisure the magnificent scene. The sun was just emerged from the sea, over which his rays shed a flood of light, and darted172 a thousand brilliant tints on the vapours that ascended173 the horizon, and floated there in light clouds, leaving the bosom of the waters below clear as chrystal, except where the white surges were seen to beat upon the rocks; and discovering the distant sails of the fishing boats, and the far distant highlands of Corsica, tinted174 with ?therial blue. Clara, after some time, drew forth her pencil, but threw it aside in despair. Adeline, as they returned home through a romantic glen, when her senses were no longer absorbed in the contemplation of this grand scenery, and when its images floated on her memory, only, in softened colours, repeated the following lines:
SUNRISE: A SONNET175.
Oft let me wander, at the break of day, Thro’ the cool vale o’erhung with waving woods, Drink the rich fragrance of the budding May, And catch the murmur of the distant floods; Or rest on the fresh bank of limpid176 rill, Where sleeps the vi’let in the dewy shade. Where op’ning lilies balmy sweets distill177, And the wild musk-rose weeps along the glade178:
Or climb the eastern cliff, whose airy head Hangs rudely o’er the blue and misty179 main; Watch the fine hues180 of morn through ?ther spread, And paint with roseate glow the chrystal plain. Oh! who can speak the rapture of the soul When o’er the waves the sun first steals to sight,’ And all the world of waters, as they roll, And Heaven’s vast vault182 unveils in living light! So life’s young hour to man enchanting183 smiles, With sparkling health, and joy, and fancy’s fairy wiles184!
La Luc in his walks met with some sensible and agreeable companions, who like himself came to Nice in search of health. Of these he soon formed a small but pleasant society, among whom was a Frenchman, whose mild manners, marked with a deep and interesting melancholy, had particularly attracted La Luc. He very seldom mentioned himself, or any circumstance that might lead to a knowledge of his family, but on other subjects conversed185 with frankness and much intelligence. La Luc had frequently invited him to his lodgings, but he had always declined the invitation, and this in a manner so gentle as to disarm186 displeasure, and convince La Luc that his refusal was the consequence of a certain dejection of mind which made him reluctant to meet other strangers.
The description which La Luc had given of this foreigner had excited the curiosity of Clara; and the sympathy which the unfortunate feel for each other called forth the commiseration187 of Adeline; for that he was unfortunate she could not doubt. On their return from an evening walk La Luc pointed out the chavelier, and quickened his pace to overtake him. Adeline was for a moment impelled188 to follow, but delicacy189 checked her steps, she knew how painful the presence of a stranger often is to a wounded mind, and forbore to intrude190 herself on his notice for the sake of only satisfying an idle curiosity. She turned therefore, into another path; but the delicacy which now prevented the meeting, accident in a few days defeated, and La Luc introduced the stranger. Adeline received him with a soft smile, but endeavoured to restrain the expression of pity which her features had involuntarily assumed; she wished him not to know that she observed he was unhappy.
After this interview he no longer rejected the invitations of La Luc, but made him frequent visits, and often accompanied Adeline and Clara in their rambles191. The mild and sensible conversation of the former seemed to sooth his mind, and in her presence he frequently conversed with a degree of animation which La Luc till then had not observed in him. Adeline too derived192 from the similarity of their taste, and his intelligent conversation, a degree of satisfaction which contributed, with the compassion193 his dejection inspired, to win her confidence, and she conversed with an easy frankness rather unusual to her.
His visits soon became more frequent. He walked with La Luc and his family; he attended them on their little excursions to view those magnificent remains194 of Roman antiquity195 which enrich the neighbourhood of Nice. When the ladies sat at home and worked, he enlivened the hours by reading to them, and they had the pleasure to observe his spirits somewhat relieved from the heavy melancholy that had oppressed him.
M. Amand was passionately196 fond of music. Clara had not forgot to bring her beloved lute197: he would sometimes strike the chords in the most sweet and mournful symphonies, but never could be prevailed on to play. When Adeline or Clara played, he would sit in deep reverie, and lost to every object around him, except when he fixed his eyes in mournful gaze on Adeline, and a sigh would sometimes escape him.
One evening Adeline having excused herself from accompanying La Luc and Clara in a visit to a neighbouring family, she retired to the terrace of the garden, which overlooked the sea, and as she viewed the tranquil198 splendour of the setting sun, and his glories reflected on the polished surface of the waves, she touched the strings199 of the lute in softest harmony, her voice accompanying it with words which she had one day written after having read that rich effusion of Shakespeare’s genius, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
TITANIA TO HER LOVE.
O! fly with me through distant air To isles200 that gem201 the western deep! For laughing Summer revels203 there, And hangs her wreath on ev’ry steep.
As through the green transparent204 sea Light floating on its waves we go, The nymphs shall gaily205 welcome me Far in their coral caves below.
For oft upon their margin sands, When Twilight leads the fresh’ning Hours. I come with all my jocund206 bands To charm them from their sea-green bow’rs.
And well they love our sports to view, And on the Ocean’s breast to lave; And oft, as we the dance renew, They call up music from the wave.
Swift hie we to that splendid clime, Where gay Jamaica spreads her scene, Lifts the blue mountain — wild — sublime! And smooths her vales of vivid green.
Where throned high, in pomp of shade, The Power of Vegetation reigns207, Expanding wide, o’er hill and glade, Shrubs of all growth — fruit of all stains:
She steals the sun-beams’ fervid208 glow To paint her flow’rs of mingling209 hue181; And o’er the grape the purple throw, Breaking from verdant210 leaves to view.
There, myrtle bow’rs, and citron grove142, O’ercanopy our airy dance; And there the sea-breeze loves to rove When trembles Day’s departing glance.
And when the false moon steals away, Or e’er the chacing morn doth rise, Oft, fearless, we our gambols211 play By the fire-worm’s radiant eyes.
And suck the honey’d reeds that swell7 In tufted plumes212 of silver white; Or pierce the cocoa’s milky213 cell, To sip60 the nectar of delight!
And when the shaking thunders roll, And lightnings strike athwart the gloom, We shelter in the cedar’s bole, And revel202 ‘mid the rich perfume! But chief we love beneath the palm, Or verdant plantain’s spreading leaf, To hear, upon the midnight calm, Sweet Philomela pour her grief. To mortal sprite such dulcet214 sound, Such blissful hours, were never known! O! fly with me my airy round, And I will make them all thine own!
Adeline ceased to sing when she immediately heard repeated in a low voice,
“To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,
Such blissful hours, were never known!”
and turning her eyes whence it came, she saw M. Amand. She blushed and laid down the lute, which he instantly took up, and with a tremulous hand drew forth tones
“That might create a soul under the ribs215 of Death.”
In a melodious216 voice, that trembled with sensibility, he sang the following
SONNET.
How sweet is Love’s first gentle sway,
When crown’d with flow’rs he softly smiles!
His blue eyes fraught217 with tearful wiles,
Where beams of tender transport play:
Hope leads him on his airy way,
And Faith and Fancy still beguiles218 —
Faith quickly tangled219 in her toils220 —
Fancy, whose magic forms so gay
The fair Deceiver’s self deceive —
“How sweet is Love’s first gentle sway!”
Ne’er would that heart he bids to grieve
From Sorrow’s soft enchantments221 stray —
Ne’er — till the God, exulting222 in his art,
Relentless223 frowns, and wings th’ envenom’d dart171!
Monsieur Amand paused: he seemed much oppressed, and at length, bursting into tears, laid down the instrument and walked abruptly224 away to the farther end of the terrace. Adeline, without seeming to observe his agitation225, rose and leaned upon the wall, below which a group of fishermen were busily employed in drawing a net. In a few moments he returned, with a composed and softened countenance. “Forgive this abrupt conduct,” said he; “I know not how to apologize for it but by owning its cause. When I tell you, Madam, that my tears flow to the memory of a lady who strongly resembled you, and who is lost to me for ever, you will know how to pity me.” — His voice faultered, and he paused. Adeline was silent. “The lute,” he resumed, was her favourite instrument, and when you touched it with such melancholy expression, I saw her very image before me. But alas226! why do I distress227 you with a knowledge of of my sorrows! she is gone, and never to return! And you, Adeline — you” — He checked his speech; and Adeline, turning on him a look of mournful regard, observed a wildness in his eyes which alarmed her. “These recollections are too painful,” said she, in a gentle voice; let us return to the house; M. La Luc is probably come home.” — “O no!” replied M. Amand; “No — this breeze refreshes me. How often at this hour have I talked with her, as I now talk with you! — Such were the soft tones of her voice — such the ineffable228 expression of her countenance.” — Adeline interrupted him. “Let me beg of you to consider your health — this dewy air cannot be good for invalids229.” He stood with his hands clasped, and seemed not to hear her. She took up the lute to go, and passed her fingers lightly over the chords. The sounds recalled his scattered senses: he raised his eyes, and fixed them in long unsettled gaze upon hers. “Must I leave you here?” said she, smiling, and standing in an attitude to depart — “I entreat124 you to play again the air I heard just now,” said M. Amand, in a hurried voice. — “Certainly;” and she immediately began to play. He leaned against a palm tree in an attitude of deep attention, and as the sounds languished230 on the air, his features gradually lost their wild expression, and he melted into tears. He continued to weep silently till the song concluded, and it was some time before he recovered voice enough to say, “Adeline, I cannot thank you for this goodness. My mind has recovered its bias231, you have soothed232 a broken heart. Increase the kindness you have shewn me by promising233 never to mention what you have witnessed this evening, and I will endeavour never again to wound your sensibility “by a similiar offence.” — Adeline gave the required promise; and M. Amand, pressing her hand, with a melancholy smile, hurried from the garden, and she saw him no more that night.
La Luc had been near a fortnight at Nice, and his health, instead of amending234, seemed rather to decline, yet he wished to make a longer experiment of the climate. The air, which failed to restore her venerable friend, revived Adeline, and the variety and novelty of the surrounding scenes amused her mind, though, since they could not obliterate235 the memory of past, or suppress the pang236 of present affection, they were ineffectual to dissipate the sick languor237 of melancholy. Company, by compelling her to withdraw her attention from the subject of her sorrow, afforded her a transient relief, but the violence of the exertion238 generally nerally left her more depressed239. It was in the stillness of solitude240, in the tranquil observance of beautiful nature, that her mind recovered its tone, and indulging the pensive inclination now become habitual241 to it, was soothed and fortified242. Of all the grand objects which nature had exhibited, the ocean inspired her with the most sublime admiration She loved to wander alone on its shores, and, when she could escape so long from the duties or the forms of society, she would sit for hours on the beach watching the rolling waves, and listening to their dying murmur, till her softened fancy recalled long lost scenes, and restored the image of Theodore, when tears of despondency too often followed those of pity and regret. But these visions of memory, painful as they were, no longer excited that phrenzy of grief they formerly243 awakened in Savoy; the sharpness of misery244 was passed, though its heavy influence was not perhaps less powerful. To these solitary indulgences generally succeeded calmness, and what Adeline endeavoured to believe was resignation.
She usually rose early, and walked down to the shore to enjoy, in the cool and silent hours of the morning, the cheering beauty of nature, and inhale245 the pure sea-breeze. Every object then smiled in fresh and lively colours. The blue sea, the brilliant sky, the distant fishing boats, with their white sails, and the voices of the fishermen borne at intervals246 on the air, were circumstances which reanimated her spirits, and in one of her rambles, yielding to that taste for poetry which had seldom forsaken248 her, she repeated the following lines:
MORNING, ON THE SEA SHORE.
What print of fairy feet is here
On Neptune’s smooth and yellow sands?
What midnight revel’s airy dance,
Beneath the moon-beams’ trembling glance,
Has blest these shores? — What sprightly249 bands
Have chac’d the waves uncheck’d by fear?
Whoe’er they were they fled from morn,
For now all silent and forlorn
These tide-forsaken sands appear —
Return, sweet sprites! the scene to cheer!
In vain the call! — Till moonlight’s hour
Again diffuse76 its softer pow’r,
Titania, nor her fairy loves,
Emerge from India’s spicy251 groves.
Then, when the shad’wy hour returns,
When silence reigns o’er air and earth,
And ev’ry star in ?ther burns,
They come to celebrate their mirth;
In frolic ringlet trip the ground,
Bid Music’s voice on Silence win,
Till magic echoes answer round —
Thus do their festive252 rites250 begin.
O fairy forms! so coy to mortal ken71,
Your mystic steps to poets only shewn,
O! lead me to the brook253, or hallow’d glen,
Retiring far, with winding woods o’ergrown!
Where’er ye best delight to rule;
If in some forest’s lone138 retreat,
Thither conduct my willing feet
To the light brink254 of fountain cool,
Where, sleeping in the midnight dew,
Lie Spring’s young buds of ev’ry hue,
Yielding their sweet breath to the air;
To fold their silken leaves from harm,
And their chill heads in moonshine warm,
To bright Titania’s tender care.
There, to the night-bird’s plaintive255 chaunt
Your carols sweet ye love to raise,
With oaten reed and past’ral lays;
And guard with forceful spell her haunt,
Who, when your antic sports are done,
Oft lulls256 ye in the lily’s cell,
Sweet flow’r! that suits your slumbers257 well,
And shields ye from the rising sun.
When not to India’s steeps ye fly
After twilight and the moon,
In honey’d buds ye love to lie,
While reigns supreme258 Light’s fervid noon;
Nor quit the cell where peace pervades259
Till night leads on the dews and shades.
E’en now your scenes enchanted260 meet my sight!
I see the earth unclose, the palace rise,
The high dome261 swell, and long arcades262 of light
Glitter among the deep embow’ring woods,
And glance reflected from the trembling floods!
While to soft lutes the portals wide unfold,
And fairy forms, of fine ?therial dyes,
Advance with frolic step and laughing eyes,
Their hair with pearl, their garments deck’d with gold;
Pearls that in Neptune’s briny263 waves they sought,
And gold from India’s deepest caverns264 brought.
Thus your light visions to my eyes unveil,
Ye sportive pleasures, sweet illusions, hail!
But ah! at morn’s first blush again ye fade!
So from youth’s ardent265 gaze life’s landscape gay,
And forms in Fancy’s summer hues array’d,
Dissolve at once in air at Truth’s resplendent day!
During several days succeeding that on which M. Amand had disclosed the cause of his melancholy, he did not visit La Luc. At length Adeline met him in one of her solitary rambles on the shore. He was pale and dejected, and seemed much agitated266 when he observed her; she therefore endeavoured to avoid him, but he advanced with quickened steps and accosted267 her. He said it was his intention to leave Nice in a few days. “I have found no benefit from the climate,” added M. Amand; Alas! what climate can relieve the sickness of the heart! I go to lose in the varieties of new scenes the remembrance of past happiness; yet the effort is vain; I am every where equally restless and unhappy.” Adeline tried to encourage him to hope much from time and change of place. “Time will blunt the sharpest edge of sorrow,” said she; “I know it from experience.” Yet while she spoke, the tears in her eyes contradicted the assertion of her lips. “You have been unhappy, Adeline! — Yes — I knew it from the first. The smile of pity which you gave me, assured me that you knew what it was to suffer.” The desponding air with which he spoke renewed her apprehension268 of a scene similar to the one she had lately witnessed, and she changed the subject, but he soon returned to it. “You bid me hope much from time! — My wife! — My dear wife!” — his tongue faultered — “It is now many months since I lost her — yet the moment of her death seems but as yesterday.” Adeline faintly smiled. “You can scarcely judge of the effect of time yet, you have much to hope for.” He shook his head. “But I am again intruding269 my misfortunes on your notice; forgive this perpetual egotism. There is a comfort in the pity of the good such as nothing else can impart; this must plead my excuse; may you, Adeline, never want it. Ah! those tears — ” Adeline hastily dried them. M. Amand forbore to press the subject, and immediately began to converse on indifferent topics. They returned towards the chateau, but La Luc being from home, M. Amand took leave at the door. Adeline retired to her chamber, oppressed by her own sorrows and those of her amiable270 friend.
Near three weeks had now elapsed at Nice, during which the disorder of La Luc seemed rather to encrease than to abate11, when his physician very honestly confessed the little hope he entertained from the climate, and advised him to try the effect of a sea voyage, adding, that if the experiment failed, even the air of Montpellier appeared to him more likely to afford relief than that of Nice. La Luc received this disinterested271 advice with a mixture of gratitude and disappointment. The circumstances which had made him reluctant to quit Savoy, rendered him yet more so to protract272 his absence, and encrease his expences; but the ties of affection that bound him to his family, and the love of life, which so seldom leaves us, again prevailed over inferior considerations, and he determined to coast the Mediterranean as far as Languedoc, where, if the voyage did not answer his expectations, he would land and proceed to Montpellier.
When M. Amand learned that La Luc designed to quit Nice in a few days, he determined not to leave it before him. During this interval247 he had not sufficient resolution to deny himself the frequent conversation of Adeline, though her presence, by reminding him of his lost wife, gave him more pain than comfort. He was the second son of a French gentleman of family, and had been married about a year to a lady to whom he had long been attached when she died in her lying-in. The infant soon followed its mother, and left the disconsolate273 father abandoned to grief, which had preyed274 so heavily on his health, that his physician thought it necessary to send him to Nice. From the air of Nice, however, he had derived no benefit, and he now determined to travel farther into Italy, though he no longer felt any interest in those charming scenes which in happier days, and with her whom he never ceased to lament, would have afforded him the highest degree of mental luxury — now he sought only to escape from himself, or rather from the image of her who had once constituted his truest happiness.
La Luc having laid his plan, hired a small vessel163, and in a few days embarked275, with a sick hope bidding adieu to the shores of Italy and the towering alps, and seeking on a new element the health which had hitherto mocked his pursuit.
M. Amand took a melancholy leave of his new friends, whom he attended to the sea side. When he assisted Adeline on board, his heart was too full to suffer him to say farewell; but he stood long on the beach pursuing with his eyes her course over the waters, and waving his hand, till tears dimmed his sight. The breeze wafted276 the vessel gently from the coast, and Adeline saw herself surrounded by the undulating waves of the ocean. The shore appeared to recede277, its mountains to lessen278, the gay colours of its landscape to melt into each other, and in a short time the figure of M. Amand was seen no more: the town of Nice, with its castle and harbour, next faded away in distance, and the purple tint140 of the mountains was at length all that remained on the verge279 of the horizon. She sighed as she gazed, and her eyes filled with tears. “So vanished my prospect of happiness,” said she; “and my future view is like the waste of waters that surround me.” Her heart was full, and she retired from observation to a remote part of the deck, where she indulged her tears as she watched the vessel cut its way through the liquid glass. The water was so transparent that she saw the sun-beams playing at a considerable depth, and fish of various colours glance athwart the current. Innumerable marine280 plants spread their vigorous leaves on the rocks below, and the richness of their verdure formed a beautiful contrast to the glowing scarlet281 of the coral that branched beside them.
The distant coast, at length, entirely282 disappeared. Adeline gazed with an emotion the most sub’ime, on the boundless283 expanse of waters that spread on all sides: she seemed as if launched into a new world; the grandeur and immensity of the view astonished and overpowered her: for a moment she doubted the truth of the compass, and believed it to be almost impossible for the vessel to find its way over the pathless waters to any shore. And when she considered that a plank284 alone separated her from death, a sensation of unmixed terror superceded that of sublimity, and she hastily turned her eyes from the prospect, and her thoughts from the subject.
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1
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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7
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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8
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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9
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
emollient
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| n.镇痛剂；缓和药；adj.使柔软的；安慰性的，起镇静作用的 | |
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11
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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12
abatement
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| n.减(免)税，打折扣，冲销 | |
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13
urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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14
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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15
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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16
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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17
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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18
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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19
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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20
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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21
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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22
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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23
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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24
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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25
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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26
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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27
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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28
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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29
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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30
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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31
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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32
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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33
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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34
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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35
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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36
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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37
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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38
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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39
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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40
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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41
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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43
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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46
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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50
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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51
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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52
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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54
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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55
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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57
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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58
deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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60
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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61
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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63
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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64
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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65
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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66
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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67
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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68
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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69
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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70
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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71
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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72
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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73
sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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74
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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75
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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76
diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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77
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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78
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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79
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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80
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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81
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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82
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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83
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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84
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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85
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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86
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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87
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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88
spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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89
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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90
expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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91
materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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92
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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93
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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94
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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95
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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96
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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97
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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98
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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99
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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100
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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101
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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102
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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103
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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104
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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105
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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106
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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107
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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108
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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109
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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110
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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111
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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112
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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113
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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114
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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115
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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116
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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117
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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118
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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119
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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120
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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121
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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122
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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123
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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124
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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125
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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126
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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127
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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128
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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129
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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130
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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131
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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132
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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133
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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134
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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135
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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136
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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137
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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138
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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139
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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140
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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141
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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142
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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143
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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144
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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145
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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146
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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147
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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148
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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149
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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150
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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151
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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152
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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153
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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154
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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155
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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156
meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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157
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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158
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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160
monopolized
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| v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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161
tantalized
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| v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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163
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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164
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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165
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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166
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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167
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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168
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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169
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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170
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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171
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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172
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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173
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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175
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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176
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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177
distill
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| vt.蒸馏，用蒸馏法提取，吸取，提炼 | |
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178
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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179
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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180
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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181
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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182
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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183
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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184
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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185
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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186
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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187
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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188
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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190
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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191
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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192
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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193
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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194
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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195
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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196
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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197
lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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198
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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199
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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200
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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201
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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202
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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203
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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204
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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205
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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206
jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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207
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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208
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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209
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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210
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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211
gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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212
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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213
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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214
dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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215
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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216
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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217
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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218
beguiles
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| v.欺骗( beguile的第三人称单数 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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219
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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220
toils
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| 网 | |
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221
enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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222
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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223
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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224
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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225
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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226
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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227
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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228
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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229
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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230
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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231
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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232
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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233
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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234
amending
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| 改良，修改，修订( amend的现在分词 )； 改良，修改，修订( amend的第三人称单数 )( amends的现在分词 ) | |
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235
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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236
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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237
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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238
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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239
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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240
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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241
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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242
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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243
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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244
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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245
inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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246
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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247
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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248
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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249
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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250
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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251
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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252
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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253
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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254
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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255
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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256
lulls
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| n.间歇期（lull的复数形式）vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的第三人称单数形式） | |
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257
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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258
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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259
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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260
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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261
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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262
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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263
briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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264
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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265
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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266
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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267
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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268
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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269
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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270
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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271
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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272
protract
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| v.延长，拖长 | |
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273
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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274
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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275
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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276
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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277
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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278
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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279
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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280
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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281
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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282
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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283
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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284
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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